The End of I: One of the most beautiful poems I've ever read. It resonated with beauty, understanding, deep human insights into all eternity, and most of all, it was grandiosely replete with vicissitude's misfortune as if reflected on a satin sheet, draped over an alabaster pedestal.

The End of I: One of the most beautiful poems I've ever read. It resonated with beauty, understanding, deep human insights into all eternity, and most of all, it was grandiosely replete with vicissitude's misfortune as if reflected on a satin sheet, draped over an alabaster pedestal.

The End of I: One of the most beautiful poems I've ever read. It resonated with beauty, understanding, deep human insights into all eternity, and most of all, it was grandiosely replete with vicissitude's misfortune as if reflected on a satin sheet, draped over an alabaster pedestal.

Thank you for the kind words but it was only meant to be "not bad", nothing more.

When you write...it was grandiosely replete with vicissitude's misfortune as if reflected on a satin sheet, draped over an alabaster pedestal, this sounds more poetic than what I wrote!

Most of my erstwhile writings are far more philosophical. This End of I poem was an anomaly written more by accident than by intent.

My soul is my sole energy
it gives me life, it's what life gives me
an egg that came before the chicken
the fluid life-force before it'd thicken.

I eat my soul, only me; it is delicious
when it's free. But if you have to pay for it
With currency of life's deceit,
You shyly put it back, away from eyes,
into its place.

You don't want to expose, eh, your
little heart, in an expose
the little heart that beats your chest
from the inside, a hundred times
a minute.

It wants to get out to the open
'casuse it wants you to hear it.
Often it daydreams of being heard
by the large, uncaring herd
of humans.

It wants a voice, and you carry that
inside your mind, you soul-heart vat.
You quiet it, you oppress its voice.
What your mind wants, it still avoids.

What is it that can relieve
my pain, my sores, my suffering?
my many wounds of trauma
my life's infectious spittle-magma?

Ah! If only I could again re-live
My childhood's enchantment
It would help to rid my soul
of worries, vanity, whip and coal,
of salt mines, gold digs, mixing bowl
turned upside down, on the kitchen floor.

I gave up writing poetry about five years ago. Maybe I am five years younger than you? I only write now when the inspiration comes, as opposed to earlier times, when I wrote only when inspiration struck.

I hated poetry all my life until I read a poem by Richard Tillinghast, "The Table". It changed my attitude about poetry, turned it around 180 degrees. That was oh, I don't know, at around the turn of the century. Maybe.

I decided some time ago, that writing poetry is really easy, and writing good poetry is so hard, it is well neigh impossible. But one perseveres, especially when the inspiration strikes.